


Just Deserts Are Not Enough (But They Don't Have to Be)

by RosiePaw



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Upside-Down'verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:47:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23015002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosiePaw/pseuds/RosiePaw
Summary: This fic follows on the events of WyvernQuill's amazingThe Whole Damned World Seemed Upside Downand won't make any sense unless you've read that first. But really, if you haven't already read that, you're in for a treat!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 150





	Just Deserts Are Not Enough (But They Don't Have to Be)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Whole Damned World Seemed Upside Down](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22287982) by [WyvernQuill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WyvernQuill/pseuds/WyvernQuill). 



It was so new, so fragile, this thing between them. They had been enemies for millennia, enemies with benefits for centuries. They shared so much history – and unknowingly, they’d also shared a matched pair of unrequited loves. Yet there was still so much they didn’t know about each other.

Well, no. Best to be accurate. Aziraphale strongly suspected that Crawly had observed him more keenly than he’d observed Crawly and in consequence, knew more about him. It was Aziraphale who lacked knowledge. To take one, perhaps the most important, example: just how much of Crawly’s… demonicity (for want of a better word) was an act designed to meet Aziraphale’s expectations? How much was Crawly’s own nature?

The one thing Aziraphale knew with certainty was that he couldn’t ask outright. Expert interrogators know how to ask questions without letting the questions themselves give away information. Aziraphale was no expert – and Crawly _was_ , not in interrogation but in reading Aziraphale. If he’d been so desperate to for Aziraphale’s mere attention that he’d spent six millennia being what he thought Aziraphale wanted him to be, how much more desperate would he be now that Aziraphale had confessed to love?

The imbalance of power in their relationship was a gaping and festering wound. It would never begin to heal if Aziraphale kept re-opening it with direct questions that Crawly could not help but answer according to the old, diseased patterns of interaction between them.

Instead Aziraphale tried to walk the fine line between giving Crawly room to blossom and staying close enough that Crawly wouldn’t start worrying that Aziraphale was reconsidering his plan to run away to Alpha Centauri.

But in Her Blessed Name, would it be too much to suggest that his lover might attend to matters of personal hygiene at least occasionally?

Aziraphale had been mulling this last question over so intently and for such a time that when he came down to open the bookshop one typically sunny London morning and discovered Crawly waiting outside, his first thought was that She’d heard him and answered. Crawly’s hair, apparently freshly washed, shone like raw copper in the sun and looked so soft that Aziraphale’s fingers ached with the force of not touching.

“Hi,” said Crawly. “Er… May I come in?”

Aziraphale stepped aside to admit him, only then noticing what the demon was wearing. The dark pin-striped suit had probably been bought on sale at Marks & Spencer, but it was obviously new and its slim cut flattered Crawly’s lanky frame quite nicely indeed. Pale blue shirt, dark tie and on his feet… 

“You’re staring. Is it all right? I wanted to ask if I could spend some time in your shop, but you’re fuss… particular about your shop, so I figured I should get some new clothes but if they’re not all right I could…”

“No!” Aziraphale blurted, discovering just then how very much he wanted those clothes to stay. A bit embarrassed, he tried to cover. “They’re fine. They’re actually… more than fine.”

Crawly’s eyebrows rose. “Really?”

“Really. But those red Converse clash with your hair.”

“My hair,” purred Crawly, “Is up here. My shoes are all the way down _there_.” He tilted his chin down slightly as he spoke. Aziraphale found his own gaze dropping downwards in response, all the way down along the length of Crawly’s be-suited body.

At which point Crawly blushed and broke into nervous laughter. “The Tempter act’s a lot easier to pull off when I know you _don’t_ know it’s an act.”

Aziraphale was struck with a new discovery: a blushing Crawly, his hair, face and shoes all clashing shades of red, was absolutely, deliciously charming. Aziraphale’s turn to purr now. “Are you sure it’s _all_ an act? You still look… quite tempting.” He reached out, ran his fingers along the lapel of Crawly’s suit, tugged slightly. Crawly let himself be drawn nearer, his gaze now fixed on Aziraphale’s mouth. Aziraphale leaned closer…

And the shop’s bell rang as a customer entered. For the first time in all his years as a bookshop owner, Aziraphale was tempted to tell her the shop was closed. But Crawly had already stepped back, smiling ruefully. “Go on, I know how you are about customers. But is it all right if I stay a bit?”

Aziraphale nodded and went to deal with the customer.

***

“A bit” turned out to be the larger part of the day. As luck would have it, it turned out to be an extremely busy day, so that Aziraphale found himself dealing with one customer after another. In the meantime Crawly ensconced himself in a quiet corner with a large book propped in front of him. This came as a something of a surprise to Aziraphale, who hadn’t known the demon could read. Then he noticed the motion of Crawly’s left arm, which suggested that… Was Crawly _scribbling_ in one of the books for sale?

Aziraphale turned and began to head towards Crawly, intending to have a stern word with him on this point, but just then two more customers came into the shop. The flow remained steady. By the time Aziraphale had dispensed with the last customer of the day, Crawly was gone.

Curious, Aziraphale went over to the corner where the demon had been sitting and extended his senses among the nearby books, searching for traces of demonic scent. He quickly located the book Crawly had been holding, but when he flipped through its pages, they were innocent of anything except the ink the printing press had placed there.

***

Two days later, Crawly returned. He was wearing the same clothes, but he obviously _hadn’t_ been wearing them three days running, nor had he slept in them. And he’d washed his hair again, which for Crawly was saying quite a lot.

The demon chose a different corner this time but repeated his previous behaviour, choosing a large book and then scribbling… in something placed _inside_ the book, Aziraphale realized. Whatever he was doing, he didn’t want Aziraphale to know about it even though he felt compelled to do it in Aziraphale’s shop. But what was he doing? Writing? Aziraphale had never seen evidence that Crawly had bothered to learn how. 

Drawing? Crawly _did_ paint. Aziraphale had seen his work. Once. Which was quite enough, thank you. Aziraphale was hardly squeamish, but he did have his limits when it came to gratuitous gore, suffering and death. Having seen Crawly’s paintings, Aziraphale could think of nothing in the book shop that might inspire Crawly to make sketches for future works in the same vein.

So what was Crawly doing? And should Aziraphale ask him? Or was Crawly planning a surprise for him? In view of their changed circumstances, that didn’t seem unlikely. And given that the new clothes had been a pleasant surprise indeed, Aziraphale rather thought he ought to let Crawly reveal this new plan in Crawly’s own time.

Crawly visited the shop twice more. Then, quite without warning, he stopped coming.

***

Aziraphale waited a few days, then sent a text. There was no response. After a few more days and two more unanswered texts, he went as far as to walk past the building where Crawly had his flat. The rusty presence of the VW bus in front was reassuring only to a limited degree. If Crawly had left London, he could have done so by other means. He could, for example, have gone to Hell to ask Beelzebubbly for relationship advice, which zzzey would have been delighted to dispense. But Crawly hated Hell and avoided visiting as much as he could.

Three more days, thought Aziraphale. I’ll give him three more days. And then break down the door of his flat if I have to.

(Of course he could also simply miracle the door open, but breaking it down would be more satisfying.)

And on the third day at noon, Crawly reappeared in the shop, looking both tired and exuberant. He had bits of coloured stuff in his hair and under his fingernails, and although he was wearing his new suit, he appeared to have thrown it on in haste, forgoing a tie and failing to button the jacket. Also, his shirt needed a wash.

The details of Crawly’s appearance paled in importance compared to what he carried: a largish, flat, paper-wrapped rectangle from which emanated the scent of fresh oil paint.

If Aziraphale had had a heart, it would have sunk. Instead he had the same sensation without the involvement of the organ itself. Crawly had brought him a new painting as a gift. It would be horrible.

“I’ll just drop this off,” said Crawly brightly, “I know you’re bus… Oh.” It finally seemed to have dawned on the demon that the shop was completely devoid of customers.

“It’s been a slow day,” Aziraphale replied grimly. Oh, how he wished this had not been the case. Crawly had obviously been expecting that he’d be able to present his gift and escape. Aziraphale would have been able to set the thing aside, open it in private and then find someplace to hang the monstrosity where he’d never actually have to _look_ at it.

But here they were instead. Two man-shaped beings, an empty shop, a wrapped painting and not one excuse between them for not unwrapping it immediately.

Best get it over with. Aziraphale nodded at the package. “You’ve brought a painting.”

“It’s, er, a sort of gift.” Crawly handed it over.

Aziraphale, focused on the getting through the ordeal at hand, gave him only a perfunctory nod of thanks before efficiently stripping the painting of its brown paper wrapping. He gave the work an equally perfunctory glance – and then looked again. Stared, frowning. Continued to stare, unaware his mouth had fallen open slightly.

“You don’t have to like it,” muttered Crawly, looking as if he might be going for that quick escape after all.

“No, I… It’s amazing. Also completely unlike your other work. I never knew you could do anything like this. But – of anything you might have chosen as a subject, why this one?”

Crawly smiled shyly. “Because it’s how we met.”

Aziraphale was struck by the sense of motion Crawly had captured in the painting. One could tell that the angel’s wings had _just_ flared out into battle mode as the angel sensed an intruder. One knew that the angel, holding a flaming sword aloft, was _just_ on the verge of aiming that sword at the intruder’s heart. The rising sun that backlit the angel seemed to move _just_ a bit more above the horizon as one looked.

The whole thing made Aziraphale feel as if something hot and thick was crawling upwards from his belly.

“That’s why I spent so much time in the shop sketching, you see,” explained Crawly. “I wanted to be sure of getting it – of getting _you_ right.”

Aziraphale finally recognized the hot, thick sensation. It was anger. “I was trying to smite you, you idiot!” he snapped.

“No, you weren’t,” replied Crawly with surprising confidence.

“Yes, I was, and I should know!”

“No. You. Weren’t. Aziraphale, we’ve been throwing things at each other for six thousand years. You have excellent aim. If you’d _meant_ to hit me, I’d’ve been dead.”

“Yes, that’s the point! It was a Heaven-issued flaming sword. You would have been _dead_ , not just discorporated.”

“But I wasn’t, because you weren’t trying to smite me, just to let me know you’d noticed me and I’d better clear off if I knew what was good for me. No one had ever done that before.”

“Given you warning?”

“Noticed me. Look, Hell is crowded. As a snake I was quite literally underfoot. Demons kept tripping over me because they didn’t notice me. Finally the Big Boss tripped over me and yelled at me to go to Earth.”

“Go to Earth?”

“He could hardly tell me to go to Hell, we were already there. Believe me, I was out of there before he had a chance to change his mind! And Earth, Earth was amazing, sunlight and living plants and animals. I got to crawl around without being stepped on and explore. Tried talking to the humans, but they just ignored me, whatever, I wasn’t impressed with them. But then I saw you, and you…”

“…threw a flaming sword at you.”

“ _You_ were magnificent, all wings and light and fury. And you had noticed me, you were looking right at me. _And_ you didn’t try to smite me, just to get me to clear off.”

“But you didn’t.”

“If I had, you’d never have noticed me again,” said Crawly, as if this made complete sense.

Aziraphale wanted to scream. “What if I’d smote you the _second_ time I noticed you?” he demanded.

Crawly shrugged. “It was a risk. Aziraphale, you were _always_ a risk. And…” He took off his sunglasses, looked straight at Aziraphale with those golden eyes. “You were always worth it.”

Aziraphale laid the painting down on the counter, took Crawly in his arms and kissed him, hard and deep. Their tongues twined, Aziraphale’s thicker and blunter, Crawly’s long and sinuous, with that delightful forked end that Aziraphale was only now coming to appreciate. He could feel the tips of Crawly’s claws digging into his shoulders through his suit jacket as he leaned forward, Crawly leaning back until he was almost sprawled across the counter.

They finally parted not from lack of air, as neither needed to breath, but because of what seemed like the very real possibility of spontaneous combustion.

“Centuries of fucking, but I never knew how well you kiss.” Aziraphale smiled ruefully. “It seems like something of a waste.”

“There was a time you’d have had me over the counter by now,” agreed Crawly, still sprawling, his mouth red and his pupils so dilated they were almost round. “Just so we’re clear, I enjoyed that – and would still.”

“You deserve better, though. _We_ deserve better.”

Crawly straightened up, looking thoughtful. “I’m not sure ‘deserve’ counts for as much as ‘have.’”

“Then we’ll _have_ better. Have you painted anything else since… things changed?”

Crawly grinned. “Aziraphale, are you asking if you can come up and see my _artwork_?”

“Yes, and I actually do want to see your artwork.”

Crawly raised an eyebrow.

“Among other things,” Aziraphale amended.

“What about toni… No, wait. What about tomorrow night?”

“I could come tonight.”

“I’m sure you could, but I meant in my flat.” Crawly laughed as Aziraphale groaned. “Tomorrow night, at seven?”

“I’ll be there. Oh, and Crawly? I didn’t thank you for the gift, not properly.”

“Thought that’s what the kiss was for.”

“No, the kiss was because I couldn’t _not_ kiss you right then,” Aziraphale admitted. “And if you don’t stop looking at me like that then come tomorrow night at seven we’ll still be here in this shop. Possibly with fewer clothes on.”

Crawly laughed again, kissed Aziraphale on the tip of his nose. “Tomorrow night, angel.” With that he strolled out of the shop.

Aziraphale enjoyed watching him go.

***

6:47 the next evening found Aziraphale standing in front of Crawly’s door dealing with two realizations: he was horribly early, and he ought to have brought something to eat or drink. Theoretically those two problems should have been each other’s solution. He had time to nip out and buy something. But this would have required moving away from a door that had Crawly on the other side of it. Aziraphale’s thoughts had been camped in front of this door all day. Now that his corporation had finally arrived as well, he found it impossible to contemplate leaving again.

Finally he gave in, rang the bell, remembered that the bell hadn’t worked in ages and knocked. There was a yelp and a muffled expletive from the other side. Seconds later, the door was flung open.

“Sorry for the wait, I was still getting dressed,” explained Crawly.

He was gorgeous, his face flushed, his hair not yet combed, his golden eyes uncovered. His shirt – a new shirt, a dark one – was only half tucked into his dark suit trousers and unbuttoned far enough down to show a vee of copper chest hair. A silver grey tie dangled from one long-fingered hand.

Aziraphale couldn’t, didn’t want to, look away.

“Well, er, come in?” Crawly stepped to one side, and Aziraphale duly came in. “I’ve got some beer, I’ll get it, have a seat…” Crawly gestured towards the sofa with the hand holding the tie and only then seemed to realize it was there. He tossed it into a random corner and fled into the kitchen.

Aziraphale had been in Crawly’s flat before. It had not looked like this. Except for the tie, there was no extraneous clutter. There was very little… anything. Almost all of the floor was visible. It even looked as if someone might have swiped at it with a mop.

Aziraphale made his way to the sofa, considered the lumpy cushions with their stains of unknown origin and sat down. Then he stood up again to investigate a particularly hard lump. A brief glance underneath the cushion revealed Crawly’s mobile.

“Oh, you found it!” Crawly re-entered, now carrying a tray with two sweating bottles and two glasses. “It went missing a few days ago.”

Silently Aziraphale handed the phone over, accepting in exchange a bottle and a glass. He inspected the glass. Recently washed, and rather more thoroughly than the floor.

“You texted me,” said Crawly softly. “Three times. Were you… worried?”

Aziraphale looked up from the glass. “Why should I be worried? You can demonstrably take care of yourself.”

“Good. I mean, good that you weren’t worried. Er, how’s the beer?”

It was from a craft brewery and very, very good. Crawly had gone all out, with the beer and… everything.

“The beer is excellent. Look, Crawly…” Aziraphale took a deep breath. He didn’t need it, but it bought him time. “I knew what you are and I fell in love with you anyway. That’s not going to change. _You_ don’t need to change. You don’t need to buy new clothes or throw away everything in your flat or….”

“I don’t have to throw everything away?” repeated Crawly dubiously.

“No.”

“That’s good, because it’s all jammed into the hall closet. I used the last of my miracle budget getting the door to shut and _stay_ shut.”

Aziraphale choked on his beer.

“I don’t have to buy fancy beer either, but I’ve been wanting to try craft beer for ages. Just never seemed the right time ‘til now, when I bought it to share with you. And I _like_ the way you look at me in that suit.” 

“I like looking at you in anything you wear,” Aziraphale countered.

“But just at me, not at how my clothes and I fit together. Not like you look at me in that suit.”

“I concede the point.” Aziraphale gritted his teeth and ploughed on. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t ever wear your other clothes. Only perhaps…”

“Mmmm?”

“Wash them once in a while?”

“There’s a laundrette down the street.”

They sipped in silence for a moment.

“I was going to throw it all away,” said Crawly. “That was the plan. But when I tried to… You’ve never been to Hell.”

Aziraphale frowned, not seeing where this was going. “You said it was crowded,” he offered.

“Crowded and damp and grimy, but it’s also barren. Miles and miles of featureless corridors, packed with demons, all of them looking for something a little better, a little extra. But if you manage to find anything like that, even the smallest thing, there’s always a stronger demon to take it away from you. Earth, Earth is where I get to _keep_ things.” 

Crawly took a large swallow of beer and kept going. “My flat, my paintings. My VW I got from some fool who thought she was only worth a hundred quid. My clothes I dug through bargain bins to find the ones that felt the most like me. Little things I pick up because they remind me of other things, even if they don’t mean anything to anyone else – I get to keep all of this. And… I guess I kind of _have_ to keep it in order to remind myself that I _can_ keep it.” He grimaced. “I had an anxiety attack trying to throw things away.”

Aziraphale put his beer down and put both hands on Crawly’s shoulders. “You left something off your list. _Your_ angel who was so startled by the sight of you he _threw_ a weapon meant for stabbing and slashing. And then missed.”

Crawly smiled a little at that, setting his own beer aside and leaning forward into Aziraphale’s embrace. “My angel, huh? Did I really startle you that badly?”

“Startled and annoyed. Specifically, I was highly annoyed at whomever had let you slip past them through the Gate they were guarding. I refused to consider the possibility that it might have been me.”

He could feel the curve of Crawly’s mouth against his shoulder. “Wasn’t,” said the demon, turning his head a bit to be intelligible. “I found my own way up, slithering through cracks and crevices in the rock and earth. Not as grand as strolling in through a Gate, maybe, but cracks and crevices got me where I wanted to go, that time and many times since... My angel. Does that make me, _your_ demon?” 

“Would you like it to?” Aziraphale asked softly. Softness didn’t come naturally to him, but he was learning it for Crawly’s sake.

“Yeah. I like it.” Crawly’s voice was just as soft. “You could call me that, if you wanted.”

“My demon, is the state of your flat making you anxious right at this moment?”

Crawly snuggled in deeper. “No, you’re here. And,” Brief flash of a grin. “The hall closet’s right over _there_.” 

Aziraphale tried to swallow his laughter, couldn’t manage it but then they were _both_ laughing, so that was all right. Everything might be all right, as long as they could hold each other like this and laugh.

“You’re no demon, you’re an _imp_ ,” he accused when he could finally speak again. “And if the hall closet’s ‘right over there,’ where are these paintings I came to see?”

“Knew you were only here for the paintings,” said Crawly, grinning as he disentangled himself. “Right this way.”

***

The pigeons in Trafalgar Square that Crawly liked to feed, the sunlight catching the iridescence of their neck feathers. Ritzy’s food truck just off Piccadilly, its paint shining. A London street scene painted on one of the rare rainy days, with humans scurrying about under various sorts of improvised umbrellas.

The sketch of grumpy Mona Lisa, because some things never change. (Some people hypothesized that she’d just been told she was pregnant for the 13th time.)

Other sketches, perhaps for a painting not yet begun? A lifted axe, the light of the rising sun behind it gleaming off its blade. Wings spreading wide, their Glory drowning the sunlight. Humans, agape in awe and wearing… Wait a moment, those caps.

“The Bastille,” Aziraphale said, turning to Crawly for confirmation. “My execution.”

“Not quite,” replied Crawly quietly. “But no thanks to me. I’d used up my miracle reserve, there was nothing I could do, I thought I was going to l-l-lose…”

“Hush, my demon, hush.” Aziraphale took Crawly in his arms, kissed his forehead, the tender skin at his temples. “You didn’t lose me, I didn’t lose you. Is that why you sought me out afterwards, for confirmation?”

Crawly nodded, his nose rubbing against the hollow Aziraphale’s throat.

“What fools we are, my demon. Both of us, and I perhaps the greater.”

Crawly pulled away a little, his mouth twisting in a smile. “Or maybe you couldn’t help being misled because I’m just that good an actor?”

Just as Aziraphale started to laugh, his foot knocked against something on the floor. A stack of Crawly’s older painting, leant against the wall.

“Oh, sorry,” said Crawly hastily, “I meant to get those out of the way…”

But Aziraphale frowned, his eye caught by a detail he’d never noticed before. He stooped down to look more closely, flipped to the next work in the stack, then the ones after that. Up again, to study the new paintings.

“The sun. It’s in all of these. Even in the painting of the rainy day, it’s just breaking through in the background. And in all of your older works, in every single one, it’s rising.”

Crawly looked a little embarrassed. “Well, that’s what makes Earth difference from Hell, you know? All the things humans manage to do to each other, all the suffering, all the death, and still the sun rises every morning and shines down on everyone, whether they deserve it or not, like a free gift. Whatever happened the day before, whatever’s going to happen the coming day, there’s always the sunrise.”

“Why not just paint the sunrise, then? Why all this…” Aziraphale waved one manicured hand at the offending images.

“Well, er, I also used the paintings to, ah, get in character?”

“In character.”

“For what I thought you wanted,” said Crawly simply.

Grief and guilt welled up in Aziraphale, strong enough he thought they might break him in two. “Crawly, my demon, I’m so sorry…”

“Don’t be. You were _enough_ , Aziraphale, do you understand? As long I had you and the sun rose each morning, I had _enough_.” Crawly’s tone was unexpectedly fierce, as fierce as the fire of his hair. 

Recent memories rose unbidden in Aziraphale’s mind. “But what if it didn’t?” he demanded. “What if one day, the sun didn’t rise? And it was just me and I _wasn’t_ enough?”

Crawly frowned. “Is this another of those strange dreams you’ve been having?”

“Humour me,” said Aziraphale grimly. “What if the sun didn’t rise?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be ‘just you.’ It would be both of us and we’d figure out why and fix it. You’re – no, hear me out – you’re the most intelligent being I know, and I’m, well…”

“Clever enough to fool me for thousands of years?”

“Yeah, that’ll do. We’d fix it somehow. Listen, I thought you could never love me. You thought I could never love you. But we were both wrong, and if it’s possible for us to love each other, then hope’s not a delusion and _anything_ is possible. It’s even possible we could save the world.”

Aziraphale stared at him, remembering another demon with whom he had done just that. “All these centuries I’ve hated myself for loving someone whom I thought didn’t deserve love. And all along you’ve been far wiser and braver than I, my demon. I’m the one who didn’t des-”

“’Use every man after his desert, and who should 'scape whipping?’” Crawly’s accent slid backwards four centuries as he quoted lines he’d first heard while standing in the pit with the other groundlings. “Not that there’s anything wrong with whipping, if that’s what you and your partner are into. But you and I… I thought maybe it was time we tried something gentler?”

He held out his arms. Aziraphale stepped forward into them, into the demon’s embrace. Crawly was a little taller than he was, why did he always forget that? It felt so good to shelter against him like this.

“It’s what I already told you, angel. ‘Deserve’ doesn’t count for as much as ‘have.’ And I’ve always had you, you’ve always had me. It’s just that now, we have each other… More. More closely. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather spend time exploring this new thing between us than apologizing for not having it sooner.”

Aziraphale found himself smiling. “Always the explorer, you. Through cracks and crevices.”

He started to run his hands up Crawly’s back, but the partially untucked shirt rumpled underneath his hands.

“Feel free to get that out of the way,” murmured Crawly, laying kisses along the line of Aziraphale’s jaw. 

Aziraphale needed no further encouragement to tug the shirt free. Crawly wore no vest underneath. The lean muscles of his back flexed deliciously against Aziraphale’s hands as Crawly’s own hands drifted lower, stroked, cupped, squeezed gently, so gently…

Aziraphale stepped back, away. Crawly watched him, hazy-eyed. “No?” the demon purred.

“Yes,” replied the angel. “Very much yes. But I’ve still got my damned jacket on, not to mention my tie, shirt, vest, trousers…”

“Come on, then. I’ll show you the flat’s best feature.”

***

The flat’s best feature, as far as Aziraphale was concerned, was the long, lean grace of Crawly’s body emerging as they undressed each other slowly, gently. Tearing, ripping, haste – these belonged to other times and places.

Crawly’s bed turned out to have a lumpy mattress that was possibly as old as the VW. The sheets lacked the thread-count to which Aziraphale had become accustomed in his own goose feather bed above the shop. The two pillows were hard and flat.

None of it mattered. How could it when the bed had Crawly sprawled across it, held down – gently, oh so gently – by Aziraphale’s hands as he kissed his way down Crawly’s body. Crawly’s throat, his nipples, the tender spaces just below his ribs, his meaningless and decorative navel, the trail of copper curls leading downwards. His effort, as long and lean as the rest of him.

“I could – change that. If you want-“ And then Crawly gasped, his head falling back as Aziraphale licked a broad stripe up the shaft, took the tip in his mouth and sucked gently, slowly. And continued to do so, bobbing his head a bit, his hands hot on the demon’s narrow hips to keep them from thrusting. Gently, slowly, inexorably, working his own hips against the bed because the _noises_ Crawly made, the salt _taste_ of him in Aziraphale’s mouth.

When Aziraphale finally pulled off, it was to snap a tube of lubricant into existence, to coat his fingers and deposit a generous dollop on them. He returned to sucking as he reached back, found Crawly’s entrance and gently, tenderly eased one finger in, slowly, slowly, reaching upwards until he found…

“AZ!!! Aziraphale, you bastard, oh!”

Aziraphale raised his head. “Shall I stop?”

“No!”

Chuckling, he resumed. One finger, two, three, all stroking gently, slowly, in rhythm with the motion of his head and tongue as Crawly tried to writhe underneath him, as Crawly mewled, sobbed, swore.

“Aziraphale, I can’t, I can’t – no, really, please…”

“I think,” said Aziraphale, pulling off and out, “There are at least three ways this could go. I could bring you off like this. I could bring you off with me inside you.”

“Yeah, tha…”

“Or you could ride me.”

Aziraphale’s back hit the bed as Crawly surged up against him, frantic. He looked up in time to see Crawly position himself and then, sink downwards, tight and hot. They found a rhythm, a little faster than Aziraphale had intended, a little slower than Crawly urged and yet somehow gloriously perfect.

It didn’t take long. Crawly reached for himself, but Aziraphale brushed his hand aside, wanting to be the one who gave Crawly this but also, more selfishly, wanting the feel of Crawly in his hand, wanting _his_ demon in _his_ hand, wanting to be the one who made Crawly throw his head back and shriek and tighten all around Aziraphale and that was it, everything whited out, there was nothing in the universe except the two of them and the pleasure they brought into being.

After an indeterminate period, certain details began to make themselves apparent. One was that Crawly had collapsed forward and down against Aziraphale’s chest, into the pool of his own come. The other was that more come, mixed with lube, was leaking from where Aziraphale had slipped out of Crawly at some point.

“My demon,” said Aziraphale softly, stroking his lover’s hair. No response. “Crawly.”

“Az’fell,” murmured Crawly, snuggling. And then, after a moment, his breathing roughened into what was almost a quiet snore.

Some other time, Aziraphale thought a bit ruefully, he might have the pleasure of cleaning Crawly, of caring for him after they’d made love. It obviously wasn’t going to happen this time. He snapped his fingers quietly, and their combined mess vanished. Another snap got the covers pulled up over Crawly’s bare back, so that he should not be cold in the night. Content, Aziraphale lay back and closed his eyes. 

***

He woke, blinking, to a room filled with light and found himself staring straight into the rising sun. He hadn’t really noticed the windows in Crawly’s bedroom the night before. Floor-to-ceiling, with no curtains. If anyone had been watching last night, they’d got a free show. And welcome to it, thought Aziraphale muzzily. He felt too good, too light-filled, to care.

“Best feature of the flat,” said Crawly softly, lying there tucked against Aziraphale’s side. “Sunrise every morning, like a free gift.”

“I’ve never paid much attention to sunrises before,” Aziraphale admitted.

“No?”

“But once, in Wessex – remember Wessex?”

Crawly grinned. “Mud in places mud should never be.” And then more gently, in response to Aziraphale’s grimace, “Hey, whatever else it was or wasn’t, it was our first time. One of the steps on the path that led us to here, now.”

“I watched you watching the sunrise, after, your eyes full of reflected light and your face laid bare. Not scowling, not sneering, just – open. To the sun. I couldn’t make sense of what I was seeing.”

“Can you now?”

“Yes. Well, at least a bit better. I might need more… opportunities for observation.”

“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Crawly teased. Then more seriously: “I can’t give you more than the rest of eternity, angel. Is that enough?”

“More than enough. _You’re_ more than enough, my demon.”


End file.
